


The Devil's Sadness

by midearthwritings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29642157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midearthwritings/pseuds/midearthwritings
Summary: Who would give a thought to what the monster felt?(Or : Everyone needs a friend, even Thranduil.)
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	The Devil's Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> Thranduil needs a best friend, a shoulder to cry on, someone to care for him. So I gave him one. Fight me.  
> Originally published on Tumblr (@midearthwritings)

_Give them beauty and it will become their unique obsession._

In a corner, you stand quiet. You watch as their touch linger, on his arm, his hair, everywhere. You listen to the compliments they drown him under. They talk of how his eyes are of a blue so deep, it is magnificent. They chat about the robes that suit him so well, the color matching perfectly with his pearly skin. A bunch of useless servants they are. You scan the room, slowly. None of the work they have been assigned is done. Yet, they remain by his sides, like crows around a piece of meat.

"Enough." His voice is soft, but firm. It is enough to make them stop the meaningless rambling they were at. With a flick of his wrist, he dismisses them. 

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips when you see their flushed faces. One by one, they leave the room, and soon, it is only you and the King.   
Quietly, almost feline, you step closer to stand behind him. Coming from outside, sunlight hits his mane, turning it into a golden cascade flowing down his shoulders. They are tensed, you notice. You hold your hand out in front of his face. No words are needed between the two of you, and he hands you a hairbrush. 

"Do you wish for me to plait your hair?" You ask as you begin to untangle the few knots in his silky strands.  
  
The question is pure politeness, for you know he likes to wear them free. His lack of answer only confirms the fact. Careful not to hurt him, you comb through his soft locks. When satisfied with what you've done, you grab the Crown and place it on his head. The twigs, by themselves, look quite ridiculous. Or so you think. But once on him, they turn into a very delicate piece, worth of a King.  
You lay your hands on his shoulders, applying a light pressure with your fingertips. 

"What is it that troubles the peace of your mind, Aran Nín ?"

Few could pride themselves in having Thranduil's trust. Yet, you were one of those. Again, you smile when he opens his mouth and unveils his heart before you.  


_Tell them about love and they will seduce who it is that they see first._

The Queen has passed. A tragedy that seems to affect only a small amount of people. You could count on one hand those who mourned her death. To others, it was an opportunity to try and wed the King. As you walk towards the royal bedchambers, arms busy with gifts from elves you had never heard of before, you could hear them. You try not to listen but curiosity gets the best of you. It is a hunting party, and Thranduil is the prey. A prize. They whisper about who will be able to ravish him. Fools that they are, for he loved his wife deeply and truly.  
You push the door and slide into the privacy of his room. He is standing, motionless, his back to you. His shoulders are slumped down, in defeat. 

"Are you bringing me those raptors' offerings again, Mellon Nín?" He spits the words out, but you know the anger is not for you. 

"I will get rid of them." You assure, dropping the items on his bed. 

A prey you must rescue from their deadly grips. Slowly, not to scare him away, you come closer. His breathe is short, barely audible, as if he was afraid anyone would hear it. You bring your hand to his back and rub the area in soothing patterns.

"What will I do? My son needs his mother." You watch as he runs a hand across his face. He looks exhausted, like a human lacking sleep. You shake your head and offer him a small smile.

"Do not fear for him, Aran Nín. I will help you care for the child."

_Show them wrath and they will despise you._

No one is moving. They all stand, frozen with fear, as the King pronounces his judgement. Before him, before all of you, kneels a thief who will be treated as such. Only one will be chastised. Yet, they act as if all of them will be. You stand, quietly, close to the throne. For obscure reasons, he had requested your presence. You do not mind. He does not scare you. 

"May you be thrown into our coldest cell until the day of your punishment." The order, a curse really, echoes in the room. You can hear unknow heartbeats increasing. All eyes are glued to the floor. All but those of the accused, who is sobbing and begging to be forgiven. He will not be. 

Soon, Thranduil's guards are dragging the criminal out, obeying their King's command.  
Your eyes survey the assembly once more. Had they been dogs, they would have fled with their tail between their legs, letting out high pitched whines. 

It is only when the fair haired Elvenking walks past you that you notice he has left his throne. Your eyes meet his, and as you reach to pat his forearm gently, you see his features soften.   
Has he barely left the trial that whispers raise slowly. They talk of how he had been too strict, should've let him get away with it.  
They ask him to behave like a King and cry when he does so. Hypocrites.

_Do not let them see any of those, and they will treat you as a monster._

Those who left to battle never come back untouched. If the merciless reaper did not fetch your life, then it will have taken something else. The prince had left after the Battle. You could blame it on war all you wanted, deep inside, you knew Thranduil hadn't been tender with his son. But would anyone dare looking at you and say that's what he had wanted all along, you would take care of them personally. The tears on your King's face proved, in many ways, that he had never wished for his son to leave.  
  
His head falls to the crook of your neck, tears streaming down your skin, dampening your clothes. The broken sobs that leave his lips get louder and louder. For the first time in centuries, you feel helpless. The hurt King in your arms clutches at your garments, silent plea for you to stay with him. The grip is tight enough to leave marks. His usual composure and cold facade is a memory, now replaced with a heart clenching vulnerability.   
Your fingers find their way into his hair, brushing into the silky strands in hope to soothe him. Thranduil's pained screams reverberate into your throat, and you press your cheek to the top of his head, bringing him closer. Like a disease, a parasite infecting all who stand near its host, sadness starts growing inside you. You feel it expend from your heart to your guts, leaving a unpleasant pressure in your stomach.

"Aran Nín..." Your words are quiet, soft, and you are certain they drowned under the sound of his crying. And so you wait, the remainders of a powerful monarch finding comfort in your presence. You rock him back and forth, as a mother would with her child. And you sigh. You sigh for no one would ever know who Thranduil was behind closed doors.

_And you wonder, if anyone, besides you, ever cared for what the monster really felt._

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin words used :  
> Aran Nín→My King  
> Mellon Nín→My Friend


End file.
